It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Raphael Duhamel reviews Barry Jenkins’ intimate and introspective drama on race and family.

Two years after I Am Not Your Negro, novelist James Baldwin’s singular voice still echoes in the heads of those who fight for equality. The American author’s fifth novel, If Beale Street Could Talk, is the quintessential expression of his talent, bursting with spirit and rage. Director Barry Jenkins’ adaptation unequivocally does the original work justice, successfully blending artistic prowess and grounded storytelling to surpass his own previous achievement with the Academy Award-winning Moonlight.

The opening credits only offer a few words from Baldwin, revealing that Beale Street is the metaphorical birth place of every black person in America, from his own drug-addicted biological father to the legendary Louis Armstrong. No actor or actress’ name is featured, and Jenkins himself is not even mentioned, which goes to show that his auteurism is first and foremost a respectful and restrained one, letting the narrative, rather than his newly established household name, affect the audience.

If Beale Street Could Talk recounts the passionate relationship between 19-year-old Tish (KiKi Layne) and her first and only love Fonny (Stephan James), who dreams of becoming a sculptor until he is unfairly arrested for rape. After Tish finds out that she is pregnant, her mother (Regina King) proceeds to do everything in her power to exonerate her stepson; however, they cannot move beyond the restrictions of African-American life in 1950s Harlem. Baldwin’s title finds its resonance in his characters’ tragedy:  if Beale Street could talk, it would cry out Fonny’s innocence and testify for him and every other blameless black person in court. But Jenkins’ film stresses that these innocents’ sufferings are doomed to remain silenced until their country wakes up from its deep and intolerant slumber.

Stephan James tackles the role of Alonzo ‘Fonny’ Hunt, an intrepid and charismatic young man with a singular expression, channelling Andre Holland’s performance in Moonlight. James’ slight squint gives him a piercing gaze, perfectly captured by Jenkins’ trademark portrait shots in which the actors to look directly into the camera, as if they were in direct conversation with the audience. This aspect adds a certain earnestness and poetic intimacy to the film, almost blurring the frontiers between fiction and documentary and turning the characters’ story into an account of African-American life in New York City. The feature boldly and seamlessly transitions between real photographic footage, narrated by Tish, and more cinematic episodes, a creative decision which never diminishes the story’s impact but rather reinvigorates it in a Spike Lee-esque fashion.

More personal sequences depicting Tish and Fonny’s relationship are equally well executed in an even more mastered and fearless style than in Jenkins’ previous picture. The two protagonists’ lovemaking is pure and candid, punctuated with quasi-Godardian dialogue in an otherwise conventional screenplay. Tish’s bright-coloured outfits seem to indicate her lively enthusiasm and youthful inexperience, contrasting with Fonny’s plain, working class clothes; however, she endures and survives with the help of her family, showing her hateful stepmother and the world that she is up to the task. Layne’s confident portrayal of this brave and reserved 19-year-old, embracing God’s gift of a baby boy, undeniably makes her the film’s true breakout star.

The rest of the cast is comprised of more familiar faces, such as Diego Luna and Pedro Pascal, all standing as emblems of various minorities. Their incorporation into the narrative reveals how intertwined their fates are with those of Tish and Fonny, perhaps demonstrating the necessity of convergence among similar struggles. Brian Tyree Henry only has a few minutes of screen time, but he manages to fit a memorable performance in a single exceptional sequence. The Atlanta star tells the story of his arrest and prison time – for car theft, in spite of the fact that he does not know how to drive – with such intensity and dignity that it suffuses the film and lingers in the spectator’s mind. Dave Franco, however, plays the role of a Jewish landlord, a confounding miscast considering that every other actor stands out in his own unique way. Franco is hardly believable as a religious proprietor, performing as if he had walked on set without reading the script and making no effort to transform into a credible character.

The two-hour drama, despite its focus on racial injustice, never gives in to Manichean representations of society. The woman who accuses Fonny of rape and is pressured to indict him is Puerto Rican, but her own marginalized social status does not influence her allegation; she refuses, even after Fonny’s stepmother’s ceaseless efforts, to change her testimony. Jenkins follows Baldwin in indicating that the American legal system is broken, achieving the unfortunate feat of cheating both the victim and the perpetrator in such cases.

If Beale Street Could Talk’s conclusion, however, ultimately demonstrates that these characters are far from leading the miserable existences one may have portended. Although the film does not imply that the fates of African-Americans can or will ever be equal to their white compatriots, the outcome of Tish and Fonny’s story is hopeful, rooted in the deeply Christian belief that suffering and hardship will always be redeemed in the kingdom of God.

If Beale Street Could Talk will have its general UK release on February 8th, 2019. Meanwhile, check out the trailer below: 

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Raphael Duhamel reviews Felix Van Groeningen’s poignant biopic on drug addition.

“Life is what happens to you, while you’re busy making other plans”

– John Lennon, “Beautiful Boy”

David Sheff had wonderful plans for his son: he would go to college, study what he loved, and have a great life. But at eighteen, Nic went to rehab for the first time. Beautiful Boy is the true story of drug addict Nic Sheff (Timothée Chalamet), adapted from his father’s memoir, here embodied by Steve Carell, and his own. The film’s real-life grounding helps it evade excessive pathos, and persists in that path by avoiding gratuitous scenes of substance abuse. Felix Van Groeningen directs this poignant tale with subtlety, making way for memorable displays from his two leads.

Steve Carell is finally given a part worthy of his dramatic talent, four years after Foxcatcher, with the compelling portrayal of a divorced and concerned father desperately trying to save his boy. Their crumbling relationship gives way to acting masterclasses from Chalamet and Carell, both carrying the film even in its weakest moments. Nic’s comings and goings between college and his father’s home punctuate the narrative, as a metaphorical manifestation of his sobriety and relapses. Maura Tierney, playing Karen Barbour – David’s new wife – endures her husband and step-son’s hardships with a challenging combination of distance and proximity, struggling to find the balance between protecting her own young children and indulging in David’s innumerable attempts to rescue his son. Just like her character, Tierney painfully finds her way between the two actors, in a supporting role which she commands yet never fully explores, due to its relative inconsequence in the plot.

Timothée Chalamet’s stunning performance transcends his own character, that of a wandering teenager whose desire to escape surpasses his will to live. His Renaissance allure enhances the feeling of dread and consternation which permeates the narrative, as if the audience was witnessing the slow and odious downfall of a Caravaggio model. Nic’s physical and mental collapse repulses precisely because of his pristine appearance, which he spoils with the help of methamphetamines (commonly known as Crystal Meth), resonating in this way with Jared Leto’s baby-faced Harry Goldfarb in Requiem for a Dream. Each and every spectator suffers for Chalamet’s character, inevitably recognising in this poor and beautiful boy the haunting spectre of Call Me by Your Name’s Elio, whose refinement here disappears and is supplanted by a sombre, self-destructive misanthropy.

Beautiful Boy is built around a series of flashbacks which throw light on the father and son’s complicated relationship, while implicitly showing how the insidious process of addiction begins. David feels baffled and powerless because he knows that he has done nothing wrong raising his child, and the audience progressively unravels the mysteries of Nic’s life searching for answers, only to face the hard truth: there is no logic in his dependence. The picture’s brilliant opening scene, focusing on an immobile Carell seated in a doctor’s office, stuck in the centre of the frame, as he strives to understand his son’s “disease”, encapsulates his inability to act and relate to him. Their interactions during Nic’s early and pre-teen years reveal nothing out of the ordinary, bordering at times on the cliché, in this way exonerating David, and to a certain extent, his ex-wife Vicki (Amy Ryan).

However, these flashbacks also impede the story’s progression, significantly lessening the emotional intensity of certain scenes. Consequently, the narrative’s pace is generally unequal, offering a captivating first act followed by dragged-out developments, with the film only picking up in its last stages. The ending provides a moving and hopeful conclusion to Beautiful Boy, but the inclusion of a drug awareness message, between the last frame and the credits, accompanied by statistics of substance abuse in the United States, seemed impersonal and redundant after the two-hour drama. Nic and David Sheff’s life story is tragic and authentic enough not to be presented alongside what appeared like a public service announcement. Nevertheless, Van Groeningen’s feature prevails as a forceful and potent account of addiction, led by two actors at the peak of their artistry.

Beautiful Boy will be generally released in the UK on January 18th, 2019. Meanwhile, check out its trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Raphael Duhamel reviews Robert Redford’s charming swansong. 

Forrest Tucker was a happy man. He robbed banks without hurting anyone, was sent to prison – only to escape – and went back to doing what he did best. Most people he met, may they be civilians or police officers, were struck by his smile and constant civility. David Lowery chose this unusual premise as the story for his fourth feature film, casting Robert Redford in the main role. Set in 1981 across the United States, The Old Man & the Gun is an entertaining and heart-warming picture, serving as an appropriate testimonial to one of Hollywood’s most legendary actors, in what is supposed to be his last outing.

The character of Tucker combines the attributes of the eponymous real-life thief and Redford’s own renowned anti-hero roles. Paying homage to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid from the very beginning, the feature makes multiple references to 60s and 70s cinema from this moment on while recreating the era’s style through the use of rough 16mm cinematography. Lowery’s film expertly reimagines the atmosphere of emblematic New Hollywood crime pictures, even incorporating some footage from The Chase in an aptly nostalgic montage compiling the protagonist’s – or is it Redford’s? – greatest escapes.

Facing Tucker is morose cop John Hunt, played by a moustached Casey Affleck, chasing a felon who enjoys stealing more than he takes pleasure in catching criminals. The case of the old man with a gun provides Hunt with a new goal to pursue and an exit from his existential crisis. The narrative replicates Michael Mann’s Heat in its depiction of two opposing figures on either side of the law, but transforms it into a respectful cat-and-mouse game, far from Al Pacino and Robert De Niro’s fiery relationship. The central scene in which Redford and Affleck meet is supremely amusing and courteous, in the image of their empathetic rapport, which constitutes one of the main reasons why The Old Man & the Gun is so enjoyable.

Sissy Spacek also shines as Jewel, a sympathetic widow who takes a liking to Tucker and lets herself be fooled by his mystifying manipulations. Spacek and Redford form a charming couple, and their fantastic onscreen chemistry spawns unforgettable lengthy scenes of dialogue, favoured by Lisa Zeno Churgin’s unobtrusive and smooth editing. The protagonist’s honesty, in his first encounter with Jewel, is so forthright and unexpected that it remains unclear whether she is aware of his ploys, but she certainly gives him the benefit of the doubt, beguiled by his irresistible smile and charisma. Much like the audience, she is too captivated by this mysterious personage to worry about the integrity of his occupation.

The Old Man & the Gun is, in every way, a profoundly American film. Its main and supporting cast are entirely made up of Hollywood icons, chosen as much for their acting talent than for their résumé. Spacek, Danny Glover, and Tom Waits’ characters are only referred to on a first name basis, and even Tucker’s real name is only revealed in the film’s second act, as if they were interacting with each other as their real, public self. Lowery directs his narrative with noteworthy lyricism and ingenuity, recalling at times the virtuosity of Paul Thomas Anderson’s camera movement in his equally great U.S tales, such as Boogie Nights and Inherent Vice. Tucker lives the American dream, roaming freely across the fifty states with suitcases full of money, but his non-violence and overall geniality appear to clear his name of any accusations, at least in the director’s eyes. In a Willy Loman-esque speech, the protagonist affirms that “looking sharp will take you a long way”, a statement which is undeniably legitimised by the film. The moral ambiguity of Redford’s role is far from being the story’s focus, and even Affleck’s despondent sergeant seems to find his man more likeable than hostile. At its core, The Old Man & the Gun is an endearing ode to American opportunism, symbolically closing a chapter of cinematic history with flair and panache.

The Old Man & the Gun will be generally released in the UK on December 7th. Check out its trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Raphael Duhamel dives into Paul Dano’s quiet and intimate directorial debut.

Zoe Kazan and Paul Dano’s adaptation of the 1990 novel Wildlife starts off as a traditional account of a family’s failures and successes in post-war America. Jeannette (Carey Mulligan) and Jerry (Jake Gyllenhaal) have a teenage son Joe (Ed Oxenbould), who plays football at school and listens to sports events on the radio with his father in the evening. Jeannette stays at home to take care of the house and Joe’s upbringing, while Jerry earns twenty dollars a week scraping dirt off rich men’s shoes as a caddy.

From this premise onwards, the film succeeds in defying expectations and letting Mulligan’s character occupy centre stage. Far from being a stereotypical and misogynistic patriarch, her husband is surprisingly tolerant and seemingly unable to exert any kind of domination over her. When Jerry is let go from his demeaning job, he enters an existential crisis which disturbs the balance of power between the couple and the family entirely. Gyllenhaal excels in this role as a lost man with a hangdog look, whose search for purpose never ends: his departure to fight a forest fire acts as a metaphorical encapsulation of his discontent, which he can temporarily confront yet never permanently conquer. His absence facilitates Jeannette and Joe’s rise to independence, since both are now able to enjoy a newfound freedom guiding them towards self-sufficiency. Whereas Oxenbould’s character takes advantage of the situation to get a job in a photographer’s studio, his mother starts seeing a rich entrepreneur and widow, Warren Miller (Bill Camp), in the hope of a better life.

Mulligan’s performance as a strong and damaged woman is reminiscent of her superb part in Shame, in which she portrayed a gifted singer with suicidal tendencies. The fragility and temerity displayed in Steve McQueen’s masterpiece resurface in Wildlife’s central episode, during which Jeannette and Joe have dinner with Miller. After many glasses of hard liquor, the sequence culminates in a deeply disturbing seductive dance executed by the mother, who shamelessly exposes herself in front of her son. The many closeups of Mulligan’s face, smeared with crude makeup in a desperate attempt to captivate her wealthy friend, contrast with Joe’s pale complexion, forced to witness his mother’s betrayal of their family’s trust. Jeannette’s brazen adulterous adventure recalls Xavier Dolan’s Mommy, and its heart-breaking “Vivo per lei” performed by the protagonist in front of his debauched mother. This pivotal sequence marks the beginning of Joe’s emancipation and entry into adulthood, having faced both his parents’ irresponsibility and forced to understand that he must grow out of them. Ultimately, Wildlife is a tale of rebirth, revealing how from a family’s ashes a man might arise.

Indeed, the screenplay provides enough depth and compelling dialogue for two powerhouse displays by Mulligan and Gyllenhaal, but yet it chooses to concentrate on Joe, who stands out through his boyish maturity with the appearance of an adult in a child’s body. Oxenbould’s character inevitably echoes Dano’s own work as an actor, whose distinctive demeanour initially drew attention to him in motion pictures such as Little Miss Sunshine and There Will Be Blood. His experience as a successful actor undoubtedly contributed to his masterful direction, which already offers signs of incredible maturity and skill.

Diego García’s cinematography embraces a Hopper-like style of quiet suburban melancholy, punctuated with everyday life settings. Wildlife takes place in Great Falls, Montana, a northern and mountainy location bathed in cold light, complemented by the artificial bright white glare of the town’s supermarkets and schools. Characters are mostly shot in closeups, occupying the centre of the frame, as if they were portraits taken in Joe’s studio: like Paul Thomas Anderson’s The Master, the film’s visual style reflects its historical setting and truly benefits from it.

Dano’s feature suffers only from excessive refinement, indulging in its own delicacy and stillness. By restraining itself to the realistic portrayal of a single family, it is short of any real emotion, in spite of every actor’s dedication. Its reserve is detrimental to the story’s progression, which lacks a truly cathartic climax, thus regrettably failing to have a significant impact on the audience, unlike its bashful ending which provides a supremely poetic sense of closure. Wildlife remains a quiet gem, not bold enough to seek out its potential, but honest and elegant at heart.

Wildlife will have its UK premiere at the BFI London Film Festival on October 13th. It will be generally released on November 9th. Check out its trailer below:

Raphael Duhamel wraps up the 44th Deauville American Film Festival. 

THE STAND-OUTS

Thunder Road (2018), dir. Jim Cummings

The winner of the 2018 Deauville Grand Prize unequivocally deserves it and much more. Jim Cummings’ first full-length film is an exciting and electrifying creation, pulsating with life, in the image of its guilt-ridden protagonist, Jim Arnaud. Taking its name from the legendary Bruce Springsteen song, the movie strings together multiple tragicomic sequences displaying a ridiculed yet touching man, whose struggles never seem to end. Not only does Cummings give an award-worthy performance as a broken police officer, but his direction is tight and slick, stylised and genuine at the same time. Filmmaker Magazine put him on the list of the best new faces of independent cinema back in 2012, and with Thunder Road he shows no signs of slowing down.

We the Animals (2018), dir. Jeremiah Zagar

This ethereal coming-of-age tale is the epitome of a Sundance movie, with first-time narrative feature director Jeremiah Zagar putting together all of the necessary elements for an indie gem: non-professional child actors, a grainy pastel aesthetic, handheld shots, and social issues with a touch of poetry. It follows three young brothers who strive to survive in spite of their unstable family context, with an absent father and a lethargic mother, focusing especially on the youngest child, Jonah (Evan Rosado), who combats his toxically masculine environment by drawing in a notebook where he buries his darkest secrets. We the Animals is a joy to watch and a truly stunning debut for Zagar and his actors, yet it fails like many others have done before by naively resting on its laurels and relying too heavily on visual prowess to advance its story. The result is a sincere and charming piece of cinema, which lacks in vigour but compensates through its Malickian sensibility.

THE AVERAGE

The Tale (2018), dir. Jennifer Fox

Jennifer Fox’s dramatic retelling of her own sexual abuse experience marks the beginning of a new era for female filmmakers in the wake of the #MeToo movement, and the liberation of speech it entails. The movie excels in its nuanced representation of past and present perceptions of assault, going back and forth between present-day Jennifer (Laura Dern) and teenage Jenny (Isabelle Nélisse), accurately depicting the dangerously contrasting outlooks on consent in the 1970s and the 21^st century. The Tale’s intensity and veracity contributes much to its emotional power, but its therapeutic quality for the director is ultimately detrimental to its purely cinematic integrity. Many sequences – predominantly ones showing intercourse – seem gratuitous, due to the inevitable lack of distance between Fox’s real-life experiences and their re-enactings onscreen. It remains, nonetheless, an important symbol for the post-Weinstein industry and especially women in film.

The Kindergarten Teacher (2018), dir. Sara Colangelo

The 2018 winner of Sundance’s Directing Award has the admirable courage to tell an uneasy story of psychotic obsession between a teacher and her 5-year-old pupil. Maggie Gyllenhaal steals the show in her best role since 2014’s Frank, portraying with great subtlety this tragically talentless woman who lives vicariously through her student’s genius, but the feature itself does not live up to the actress’ performance. The Kindergarten Teacher does everything to defy conventions by leaving much to imagination, an original approach which results in an underwhelming experience, leaving the audience wanting more, especially from the child, whose part is criminally underplayed. Sara Colangelo’s film wastes its initial boldness by not fulfilling its potential, but it is still an unusual reworking of an age-old story. 

THE MISFIRES

Only the Brave (2017), dir. Joseph Kosinski

Joseph Kosinski’s latest movie about a group of heroic firefighters in Arizona is a puzzling combination of excellence and mediocrity. The talented Top Gun: Maverick director joins forces with a star-studded cast composed of Josh Brolin, Miles Teller, Jennifer Connelly, and a beardless Jeff Bridges, for a film whose screenplay did not deserve to be brought to life in such a flamboyant way. It is by no means terrible, but the redemption narrative which constitutes Only the Brave’s plot is appallingly conventional and tedious, and is of no interest apart from its “true story” aspect. The world might remember these firefighters for their fearless sacrifice, but certainly not for its fictionalised adaptation.

Operation Finale (2018), dir. Chris Weitz

Oscar Isaac cultivates his image of the new Hollywood sweetheart by starring as Mossad secret agent Peter Malkin, who participated in the capture of the Final Solution’s infamous architect, Adolf Eichmann (Sir Ben Kingsley). Once again, the film’s main asset is its grounding in historical truth, since it relies on an essentially bland and unoriginal script, which so predictably places Isaac’s flawed hero character at the centre of the stage. The majority of Operation Finale occurs in an Argentinian safehouse, as a group of secret agents, also consisting of Mélanie Laurent – who obviously takes on the role of Malkin’s love interest – need Eichmann’s signature for them to leave Buenos Aires by plane. In this way, it bears many similarities with Argo’s structure and storyline, but unfortunately none of its inventiveness and talent.

Deauville Film Festival ran from August 31st to September 9th at Deauville, France. It was established in 1975 to showcase the diversity of American cinema from major Hollywood productions to independent films. 

Check out their website here. 

Raphael Duhamel attends the 44th Deauville American Film Festival and reviews Jim Cummings’ remake of his 2016 short. 

Jim Cummings’ excellent remake of his own award-winning short film, Thunder Road, surprises by its innovative form and seamless transitions between comedy and drama from the start. The opening scene is by itself a tour de force, shot in only one take. While most long shots impress by their skilful camera movement and effects, the movie’s first ten minutes are excruciatingly awkward, featuring the main character’s clumsy eulogy to his mother that culminates in a silent dance routine.

During this lengthy sequence, Jim Arnaud (Jim Cummings) asks an off-screen woman many times if he should persevere and keep talking, to which she responds that he is “doing great”. As the camera pulls in on the protagonist during his speech, ultimately focusing only on him, the audience is drawn to identify with the funeral’s attendants, who are going through the same painful ordeal as them. From this initial chapter on, Thunder Road presents itself as an exercise of empathy for the spectator, who is invited to witness the embarrassing developments in Arnaud’s life, for better or mostly for worse.

The protagonist is best described as a quasi-autistic and unstable police officer. He is mostly well-intentioned, but his fiery temper and objectively bad luck get in his way in the most tragicomic manner, as if his entire existence was set to the theme of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Taking on the role of the anti-hero, he fights for the custody of his daughter Crystal (played by the impressive Kendal Farr) against his ex-wife (Jocelyn DeBoer), with the notable help of his friend and colleague Nate (Nican Robinson). Arnaud’s character is a paradoxical one, fuelled by a highly-developed sense of pride and shame. As a troubled and dyslexic individual, fighting against his bipolar tendencies and everyone against him at the same time, it seems ironically appropriate for his duty to be protecting and serving the people of Austin, Texas. His profession provides him with much-needed authority and highlights his need for a righteous and Christian life, while consequently emphasising his inability to lead such an existence. Simultaneously, it acts as a critique of the police forces’ supposed exemplarity in the United States, especially in the wake of the Black Lives Matter movement. Arnaud’s occupation is equally crucial in his search for redemption in the eyes of his dead mother, whom he neglected towards the end of her life. He attempts to compensate this late absence by being particularly attentive to his daughter, protecting her from the “slackers” threatening her good education.

Jim Cummings also orchestrates Arnaud’s demise behind the camera, with an almost mockumentary style to his direction. Most shots are inspired and well-composed, and the cinematography makes abundant use of natural lighting, which contributes to Thunder Road’s authentic tone and small-budget feel. No character ever faces the camera directly, but the situations depicted in the film only seem to be variations of what one might see in television shows such as The Office or Modern Family. However, Cummings’ humour is never heavy-handed nor slapstick, because it is always followed by a sense of dread which renders the entire comedic effect more distressing than amusing.

One notable example occurs during a poignant scene in which his daughter’s teacher, played by Jeremy Saulnier favourite Macon Blair, explains that Crystal is a disturbance in class. In a fit of rage, Arnaud blames his daughter’s behaviour on his ex-wife, picks up a desk and threatens to throw it against a wall, until Blair’s character points out that the desk is Crystal’s. The protagonist instantly calms down and sits back, while the camera shows the teacher discreetly hiding a pair of scissors in his pocket, in case of another outburst. Another film might have cut shortly after, but the scene continues for a minute or so after this event, letting the tragedy in Arnaud’s story insidiously return and outweigh the comedy. What may have acted as comic relief for the audience conversely translates into a reminder of the grim reality which constitutes the anti-hero’s life.

Cummings’ performance is a memorable one, and he carries the movie on his shoulders without flinching. Going from laughter to tears in a split-second, his portrayal of a cop on the verge of a nervous breakdown never feels forced or overdone, due to the touching subtlety and emotional generosity he provides to the part. His talent as a director undeniably complements his comedic genius, as he seems to be perfectly aware of how and when to use his incredibly diverse set of acting skills. This combination results in an honest and forceful feature epitomising the necessity and quality of American independent cinema.

Thunder Road only seems to fail in its candid and hopeful finale: in an unusually cyclical film which follows Arnaud’s ups and downs, the most tender episodes are always followed by cynical call-backs to reality. Cummings’ decision to ultimately end on a high note ignores that trend, favouring instead a deeply American and wholesome, though ephemeral, conclusion to his character’s road towards redemption.

Thunder Road will have its UK premiere at the BFI London Film Festival on October 10th. Check out its trailer:

Raphael Duhamel reviews the second season of Donald Glover’s series.

The first sequence of Atlanta’s second season sets the tone for every other episode: two young unidentified men prepare to raid a fast-food restaurant, which escalates to an incongruous stand-off ending with an aerial shot of a bloodstained woman, screaming and crying in the middle of a road. From this premise onwards, the phenomenal showrunner Donald Glover strives to demonstrate that Atlanta: Robbin’ Season is not just a follow-up to the successful and more light-hearted first series, but truly a new chapter in the lives of Alfred (Bryan Tyree Henry) and Earn, played by himself. This opening act shows none of the already established characters, yet it still feels appropriate and relevant in a series which continually oscillates between dream-like sequences and chronicles of everyday African-American life in the Georgian city. Atlanta’s exceptional blend of comedy and grittiness, and its hauntingly realistic themes set it apart from any other show on television, unashamedly capturing and presenting the nuances of black identity in America.

The second season’s title, referencing the time of the year, around Christmas, during which many robberies occur, establishes a hostile atmosphere for the entire string of episodes. Atlanta: Robbin’ Season acts as a learning process for Alfred, aka Paper Boi, and his team comprised of his cousin-manager Earn and astute pothead-philosopher Darius (Lakeith Stanfield), who must grow out of their lovable underdog status, as they face increasingly dire challenges. This second instalment feels very much influenced by Get Out, both in its depiction of the African-American condition in the United States – which Jordan Peele compared to the one experienced by Frankenstein’s monster – and its incorporation of supernatural segments. These elements are particularly salient in the second episode, during which Alfred and Earn go to a Spotify-like streaming service, where the rapper’s every movement is seemingly followed by their entirely white staff. Earn undergoes similar discomfort in the fourth episode, which takes place during a fictitious German festival, as Glover’s character is forced to participate in mysterious games by his girlfriend Van (Zazie Beetz), surrounded by participants in strange animal masks. The festival’s menacing atmosphere is enhanced by the use of 100 and 200mm lenses, meant to make the characters appear as if they were being spied on, and similarly, the absence of subtitles during German-spoken parts favour the spectator’s identification with alienated Earn. Atlanta’s exploration of the themes of racism and African-Americanness are never gratuitous, because they always contribute to character development: the fourth episode, through Earn’s estrangement, truly marks the separation between him and Van, as Glover’s character blames her for dragging him into this “white culture” he is not comfortable in.

The season’s standout episode, Teddy Perkins, also starts with the protagonist’s alienation in an unfriendly environment, before proceeding to explore the horrifying consequences of childhood trauma. Once again fully embracing Get Out’s atmosphere, it is appropriately led by Lakeith Stanfield, playing Darius, who opened Jordan Peele’s film. This episode takes place in a colonial mansion owned by a mysterious man bearing an incredible resemblance with post-surgery Michael Jackson, whom Darius visits in hope of acquiring a piano. Teddy Perkins is played by an exceptional Donald Glover who stayed in a white mask for the entire shoot, undoubtedly contributing to his eerie performance as a deeply troubled man, who was beaten by a father in perpetual search for excellence. One of Atlanta’s most unforgettable moments is featured in this episode, as Darius witness his host dipping his fingers into an ostrich egg before ingesting it. Such grotesque occurrences should make Teddy Perkins teeter between comedy and drama, yet its most entertaining aspects are eventually balanced out by its tragic ending, which leaves Darius and the spectator equally scarred.  Directed by Hiro Murai, one of Glover’s preferred collaborators, and shot by cinematographer Christian Sprenger, Teddy Perkins remarkably plays on shadows and contrasts, perpetuating this season’s grainy look, even earning praises from Steven Soderbergh, who called it “the most beautifully photographed half-hour of television I’ve ever seen”. Its aesthetic beauty is only matched by its narrative significance, as the episode marks the beginning of the season’s second half, during which Alfred and Earn face life-threatening challenges.

The hostile atmospheres depicted in Atlanta appear as reflections of Glover’s harsh assessment of the United States, which surfaced in his recent music video for This Is America, also directed by Hiro Murai. The song’s refrain, which sees him repeating “Get your money, Black man”, could be this season’s motto, as Alfred and Earn must both take crucial decisions in order to make a living and survive in the rap world. Paper Boi learns to understand the consequences of celebrity on his life and the limits of wanting to stay “real”, whereas Earn, in a gut-wrenching finale, learns to become ruthless and put himself in front of others. Darius summarizes their situation in his usual, laid-back way: “Y’all both black, so I mean, y’all both can’t afford to fail”. The penultimate episode, featuring Alfred (Abraham Clinkscales) and Earn (Alkoya Brunson) as teenagers, paves the way for this realization, as Brunson’s character faces possible humiliation because of the shirt he is wearing, which appears to be fake. The episode’s most meaningful scene occurs when Earn is told by a white friend that he should not worry too much about what he wears, showing how appallingly early African-American consciousness, through social and racial discrimination, begins.

Atlanta: Robbin’ Season is an undoubtedly remarkable follow-up to an already excellent first season. Its characters and story gain both in stature and relevance, making for an altogether exciting and still underrated series, in the image of its creator, Donald Glover, who is quickly becoming one of the decade’s most brilliant creative minds.

The last episode of Atlanta: Robbin’ Season came out on May 10th.

Raphael Duhamel reviews John Krasinski’s well-received supernatural horror.

“IT’S SOUND!” screams a newspaper headline, shown in the first act of A Quiet Place, and serving as an appropriate and concise summary of this post-apocalyptic thriller. John Krasinski’s third feature, already his most lucrative at the box-office, is built around a simple, original and effective premise: make a sound and you die. For this reason, almost no lines are actually spoken throughout the movie, since the members of the Abbott family – headed by Emily Blunt (Evelyn Abbott) and John Krasinski himself (Lee Abbott) – communicate using American Sign Language. A Quiet Place successfully turns what could have become a dried-up gimmick into a full-fledged horror movie, with a solid storyline and powerful performances all around.

The film’s initial novelty comes from its plot, which takes place long after the actual occurrence caused the proliferation of echolocating monsters. The audience is given very little backstory about the family itself or the world that surrounds them, apart from a glimpse shared with Krasinski’s character at other survivors’ bonfire. The director and screenwriters trust the spectator to progressively understand the Abbotts’ situation and, by limiting the available amount of information, help the audience’s identification with the protagonists. Both we and they are plunged in a mysterious cloud of obscurity and ignorance. This decisive narrative choice hopefully marks the beginning of a wider “post-patient zero” approach to disaster movies, which focus on story and character development while avoiding altogether excessive reliance on flashbacks.

A Quiet Place is set on a corn farm in Iowa, which the protagonists occupy and have accommodated to fit their needs. This location, reminiscent of M. Night Shyamalan’s Signs, adds to the Abbott family’s wholesomeness. The movie perpetuates typically American values – one shot sees them holding hands in prayer before a meal – through its story and characters. Krasinski is impeccable as a strong father, utterly dedicated to the survival of his wife and children, who does his best to turn his young son (Noah Jupe) into a man. Blunt’s pregnancy for most of the movie forces her into the role of child-bearer, which she unexpectedly trades in for a more intense and active part towards the end of the movie, recalling her fierce performance in Edge of Tomorrow. The film’s true breakout star, however, is Millicent Simmonds, a deaf actress who plays the family’s only daughter, a teenager with the same hearing impairment in search of independence. Her real-life condition gives her display and the movie as a whole incredible relevance, especially since the screenwriters themselves have called A Quiet Place “a metaphor for the breakdown of family communication”. On a literal and figurative level, Simmonds’ character struggles to be heard by her father, although she appears particularly attentive to her family’s needs. As a reverse manifestation of the monsters’ acute hearing, her deafness ultimately turns out to be, in a grand instance of poetic justice, her most precious means of survival.

The insect-like CGI critters are particularly terrifying, suggesting a mix of the creature from Alien and a praying mantis; they succeed in remaining so throughout the entire movie, as their abilities and attributes are progressively unveiled. They pose a very real threat to the characters, who stand out by their ingenuity and intelligence, differing greatly from typical horror film protagonists. Indeed, the Abbotts are resourceful, only walking barefoot on paths of sand that they have formed around the farm, and using inventive diversions, such as fireworks, to distract the monsters’ attention. A Quiet Place belongs to the horror category, but Krasinski’s tight and refreshing direction, in addition to the carefully constructed story, distinguishes it from other pure products of the genre. The narrative’s conventional aspects are eclipsed by the suspenseful and well-paced third act, which provides an exhilarating finale to an entirely outstanding and innovative movie.

A Quiet Place is out now in UK cinemas. Trailer below.

Raphael Duhamel reviews Lynne Ramsay’s thriller.

You Were Never Really Here is a brilliantly discordant piece of cinema. With a run time of only eighty-five minutes, Lynne Ramsay’s adaptation of the Jonathan Ames novella stands as a truly original and refreshing take on a familiar story – a US Army veteran tracking down missing girls in a frenzied search for redemption – by prioritising a more visual and conceptual approach to narrative. Joaquin Phoenix’s masterful performance, in the role of Joe, is so grounded and visceral that he appears not to be acting, but to be playing one of the many versions of himself, his sluggish gait and bushy grey beard complementing his omnipresent baseball cap. The movie bears obvious comparison with Taxi Driver, another nightmarish New York odyssey, and Travis Bickle’s famous gun finds its reflection in Joe’s hammer, acting as an extension of the protagonist’s self.

You Were Never Really Here’s most traumatising aspects come not from its action sequences, which are purposefully quiet and cold – one of them is presented almost exclusively through black-and-white security cameras – but from the film’s disquieting depiction of its main character. The first part of the movie focuses on Joe’s very intimate relationship with his mother, played with impeccable subtlety by Judith Roberts, who is in reality the last person standing between him and suicide. His tenderness and generosity contrast heavily with his suicidal and violent tendencies, perfectly encapsulated in one memorable scene during which he contemplates a hammer with a vicious grin. Ramsay presents Phoenix’s character as a brutal yet broken man, dragging his bulky figure throughout the movie’s many hallways, who tries to escape his death wish by expiating the crimes of others. One of the film’s many motifs is suffocation, as proved by the recurring shots of Joe’s head in a plastic bag, as he tests his own limits in an effort to challenge death – a pattern foreshadowed by the opening shot of a man being choked in the same way by the protagonist. Even when he unwinds between two jobs, in a Turkish bath, Joe puts a wet towel on his face in an effort to self-asphyxiate. This suffocation is reflected in the many close-up shots focusing on the anti-hero, trapping him inside the frame and giving the spectator almost no space to breathe.

Another striking aspect of You Were Never Really Here is the omnipresence of mirrors: Ramsay films Joe confronting his past and fractured identity by repeatedly representing him next to or in front of reflective surfaces, inviting the audience to witness the protagonist’s coming to terms with his conflicted past, which is shown through very brief and well-constructed flashbacks. These short scenes are entirely devoid of dialogue, thus reinforcing the movie’s focus on visual and untalkative storytelling, and revealing more about Joe’s motivations and impulses. The most powerful flashback, however, is no longer than twenty seconds, and features him as a soldier, giving a Snickers bar to an Afghan boy, who is subsequently shot by another child for it. These episodes haunt the anti-hero’s memory, mirroring his bodily scars and establishing an inextinguishable guilt in his mind.

Ramsay’s unconventional approach to narrative is undeniably complemented by the film’s breathtaking sound design and score. You Were Never Really Here’s discordance is partly due to the opposition between Joe’s perpetually menacing silence and the very loud city noises surrounding him, contributing to the movie’s chaotic atmosphere. The director reveals that before shooting, she had sent audio clips of gunshots and fireworks to Phoenix, telling him, “This is what’s going on in [Joe’s] head”, further confirming the air of quiet insanity that the protagonist gives off. Jonny Greenwood prolongs his fantastic year with a typically percussion-heavy score, in which he channels his own work in There Will Be Blood and Mica Levi’s eerie compositions for Under the Skin, mixing strings and chords with electronic music. The score’s standout track, “Sandy’s Necklace”, is an ominously dissonant piece which fuses classical instruments with a guitar and bass, appearing at the very beginning of the movie and setting the pace for Joe’s restless journey.

You Were Never Really Here ends up being a tale of impotence, affecting both the protagonist and the audience. Its unconventional structure renders most action scenes anti-climactic, and the relative lack of onscreen violence, especially during what should the film’s turning point, frustrates Joe in his unquenched thirst for blood and the spectator’s expectations of a decisive showdown. The movie’s originality and unpredictability, therefore, comes at the cost of a disappointing ending which leaves the audience wanting more, as if the story was missing a third act. The ending’s divisiveness appears to have been due to many practical reasons, which include a hectic filming schedule and a partial reworking of the script halfway through the shoot, for a movie that was shipped to the 2017 Cannes Film Festival only a few days after coming out of the editing room. Such lateness did not diminish its chances in the eyes of the jury, who handed Phoenix the Best Actor award and Ramsay the Best Screenplay one, tied with Yorgos Lanthimos for The Killing of a Sacred Deer.

You Were Never Really Here is a beautifully abstract and essential movie, whose seemingly unfinished state further confirms its enthralling and magnificently poetic elusiveness.

You Were Never Really Here had its UK premiere at London Film Festival on 14 October. It is out now in the cinemas. Trailer:

Raphael Duhamel runs through Anderson’s impressive career leading up to Phantom Thread.

“We’re all children of Kubrick, aren’t we? Is there anything you can do that he hasn’t done?”

– Interview with The Independent, 2008

Paul Thomas Anderson is no stranger to Kubrickian themes. The filmmaker has always been attracted to larger-than-life stories, and his two most popular works, the epic 1999 drama Magnolia, and the 2007 Oscar-winning There Will Be Blood, both match the 2001 director’s grandiose style and remarkable skill. Throughout his illustrious yet still relatively short career, PTA – as many of his admirers call him – has constantly renewed his approach to storytelling and characterisation, while remaining faithful to his penchant for the themes of loneliness and family, regularly depicting characters who are on the fringe of society.

Most of Anderson’s films are set in California, where he grew up among his father’s videotapes and semi-famous actor friends. The Golden State is an inherent part of the director’s work, imbued with the sunny yet wistful atmosphere of the San Fernando Valley, particularly well reflected in the wandering and hopeful souls of Boogie Nights. Though Anderson is trademarked by his lively direction and supported by quick editing and dynamic camera movement (notably achieved through Steadicam, tracking shots and whip pans), his style has greatly evolved since the days of his first features. Frequently collaborating with cinematographer Robert Elswit, they are both avid users of the anamorphic lenses which are almost always employed to achieve a more cinematic effect with a noticeably shallower depth of field.

Anderson’s first movie, Hard Eight – also known as Sydney – was not shot with an anamorphic lens due to budget restrictions, but already showcases the director’s preoccupations. A rewriting of his Sundance short Coffee and Cigarettes, the 1996 film opens with Sydney (Philip Baker Hall) offering to help John (John C. Reilly), a young lost man looking for enough money to bury his mother. It establishes early on the motif of the absent mother in Anderson’s filmography, as well as the one of surrogate families, since Sydney takes John under his wing, providing him with everything he needs to start anew. Gwyneth Paltrow stars as a cocktail waitress who prostitutes herself to make ends meet, and Samuel L. Jackson features as an unscrupulous antagonistic figure, in this Reno-set neo-noir, shot on location in smoky casinos and sordid hotel rooms. As Anderson’s least known film, Hard Eight qualifies as a hidden gem, more minimalistic than any of his other movies. It does mark the beginning of his significant collaboration with Jon Brion, composer of the gracefully melancholic piece “Clementine’s Loop”, which would also appear in his subsequent film.

Boogie Nights, his 1997 follow-up, was developed during the chaotic post-production process of Hard Eight. Anderson’s anamorphic debut tells the story of Eddie Adams (Mark Wahlberg), a young man realising his dream of becoming a porn star in the San Fernando Valley of the late 70s, taking on the name of Dirk Diggler. A recreation of his own 1988 short mockumentary The Dirk Diggler Story, Anderson’s film takes its inspirations from Robert Altman’s compelling ensemble movies such as Nashville and Short Cuts. The movie’s opening Steadicam scene is a breath-taking combination of virtuosity and craftsmanship, as the camera flows flawlessly around the dancing cast, recalling Altman’s 8-minute opening in The Player. Philip Baker Hall and John C. Reilly return for Anderson, who brings in many new faces in the likes of Julianne Moore, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and William H. Macy. Burt Reynolds makes his grand cinematic comeback as Jack Horner, a director and patriarch at the head of a small pornographic empire, who looks after and cares for Diggler. Boogie Nights explores once again parent-son relationships, as the protagonist’s continual conflict with his mother is alleviated by Julianne Moore’s character, who assumes a surrogate-mother role. Their relationship is still very problematically marked by systematic “incestuous” intercourse, showcasing the era’s sexual frenzy and AIDS-free carelessness. The film ultimately portrays Diggler’s downfall, as he turns away from his friends and sinks into drugs, acting as a cautionary tale on the importance of family.

Magnolia is considered by many, including Anderson himself, as his magnum opus. After Boogie Nights’ success – earning him an Academy Award nomination for Best Original Screenplay – the director had the opportunity to make his passion project come to life in the form of a three-hour-long choral movie, set once again in the San Fernando Valley. Most of Boogie Nights’ cast returns, with the notable inclusion of Tom Cruise, playing a misogynistic motivational speaker.  Anderson’s anamorphic lens is more present than ever, in addition to his rapid camera movement and quick editing style, all giving rhythm to the overlapping narratives. The 1999 Golden Bear-winning film features one of recent history’s most famous sequences in the form of a sudden frog rain, a Biblical reference which ties the nine main characters’ stories together, and consequently helps Magnolia’s troubled souls come to terms with their personal problems. This deus ex machina’s sheer ambition demonstrates Anderson’s incredibly confident filmmaking, but it also conveys the movie’s main idea, namely that there is no such thing as coincidence. Most surprisingly, the sequence notably shows Stanley (Jeremy Blackman), a gifted and precocious child who is forced by his father to feature on a game show, watching over the frog rain with a smile, repeating “This is something that happens”. Stanley appears to know much more than the other adults, and especially the audience, who is further confounded after witnessing a previous scene where every main character is shown singing, on their own, Aimee Mann’s “Wise Up”. George Toles expertly analyses this sequence, explaining how Anderson “confronts a crisis of truth telling and attempts to resolve it by replacing speech with music”, an unsurprising feat considering the fifteen music videos (to this date) that he has directed for the likes of Fiona Apple, Radiohead, and HAIM. This succession of two audacious scenes further confirms the director’s artistry, as he breaks conventions and redefines the cinematic medium. Magnolia would also, however, mark the end of an era for Anderson, who considered his epic mosaic as the culmination of his San Fernando Valley chronicles, a resolution that would take him on new and unexpected artistic grounds.

Punch-Drunk Love is probably Anderson’s most idiosyncratic piece. In an effort to challenge himself, the director set out to make a romantic comedy, casting Adam Sandler in one of his best roles to date, as Barry Egan, a neurotic and disturbed novelty supplier who falls in love with Lena Leonard, played by Emily Watson. The movie sticks to rom-com conventions while deviating from them, featuring colourful interludes by artist Jeremy Blake, complemented by Jon Brion’s Hawaii-infused music. The anamorphic lens, favouring blue horizontal lens flares, contributes to Punch-Drunk Love’s binary visual scheme: Barry is only seen in his slightly oversized blue suit, while Lena is mostly shown in a red dress, the colour of passion. The story is a strange yet simple one, as Barry gets scammed by a phone-sex line, headed by a mattress-shop owner, Dean Trumbell (Philip Seymour Hoffman), while he exploits a loophole in pudding offers in order to accumulate frequent flyer miles. The audience clings onto Barry’s child-like behaviour and naivety, embodying the oblivious and innocent lover, in a world ruled by racketeers and criminals who take advantage of his solitude, as he mistakes sexual desire for love. Barry is excluded from society – he is rarely seen in the centre of the frame – and his seven emasculating sisters only perpetuate his suffering, reminding him of embarrassing childhood moments when his nickname was “Gay Boy”. Lena, therefore, acts as a welcome maternal presence, echoed by the recurring song “He Needs Me”, taken from Altman’s Popeye. Anderson’s film was a critical success, earning him Best Director at the 2002 Cannes Film Festival, but it barely recovered its budget, impeding greatly the development of his next movie, which would only come five years later.

There Will Be Blood, loosely based on Upton Sinclair’s Oil!, marked the beginning of a new stylistic era for Anderson. After the large-scale experiment that was Punch-Drunk Love, the director matured and delivered, in 2007, what is considered to be one of the best movies of the 21st century. Significantly, none of Anderson’s recurring cast appears in this movie, and features Jonny Greenwood’s music, who would go on to replace Jon Brion as the director’s preferred composer. The Radiohead guitarist’s eerie classical score echoes Kubrick’s flamboyant use of Richard Strauss in 2001: A Space Odyssey, whose beginning sequence is celebrated in There Will Be Blood’s mute opening. Indeed, the film’s first fifteen minutes feature almost no speech, apart from Daniel Plainview’s (Daniel Day-Lewis) groans, as he drags himself through the desert with a broken leg. This opening is a powerful affirmation of cinema’s visual potency, also demonstrating the protagonist’s incredible willpower and unrelenting ambition. Plainview drives the story, shown arriving in California at the turn of the 20th century with his adopted son H.W. (Dillon Freasier) in order to exploit land for oil. Anderson delves into parent-child relationships, portraying Plainview as an unaffectionate father who abandons his son, which ultimately leads to his downfall: once again, those who turn away from their family are punished. Plainview’s trade is also significant, since his incessant search for underground resources allegorises his own hidden origins, which the audience never gets to truly discover. Day-Lewis’ character repeatedly faces Eli Sunday (Paul Dano), the local church’s pastor, determined not to let him exploit the land freely. This conflict leads to memorable confrontations between the two, such as when Plainview is forced to confess, in church, that he has abandoned his child. There Will Be Blood was both a critical and commercial success, with a particularly resonating political message in the wake of the Iraq War, and it signified the beginning of Anderson’s steadier, more cerebral direction, aided once again by cinematographer Robert Elswit, who went on to win one of the movie’s two Oscars.

The Master perpetuates the filmmaker’s stylistic evolution, focusing on what has become a familiar Anderson theme of power dynamics in a father-son relationship. Philip Seymour Hoffman returns as Lancaster Dodd, the leader of “The Cause”, a religious movement partly inspired by Scientology, along with Joaquin Phoenix, who plays Freddie Quell, a World War II veteran suffering from PTSD. The movie’s premise resembles Hard Eight’s, since it features a powerful and wealthy mentor taking a vulnerable man under his wing as well. Both characters act as mirror images: Quell has an aggressive and uncontrollable temper, suffering from regular fits of uncontrollable fury, whereas Dodd is a much more reliable figure, with an air of Charles Foster Kane. The Master’s prison scene is a perfect example of that dichotomy, showing Phoenix and Hoffman in adjacent cells, as the former trashes it in an outburst of rage, while the latter stands stoically, waiting to be released. The sequence ends with both insulting each other, but their contrasting behaviour reveals their innate differences, in an opposition as simple as that of the savage versus the civilised. The film’s main female character, Peggy Dodd (Amy Adams), completes the triangle, acting as a steady and orderly figure balancing out her husband and his protégé’s improprieties. For the first time since Hard Eight, Anderson’s trademark anamorphic lens is absent, while Mihai Malaimare Jr. replaced the unavailable Elswit as cinematographer, privileging 65mm for the majority of the movie to attain a better image resolution – an extremely rare yet judicious choice, which greatly influenced camera movement, due to the device’s sheer size. The Master won the Silver Lion at the 2012 Venice Film Festival, while also earning Academy Award Nominations for each member of its exceptional trio.

Anderson’s 2014 adaptation of Thomas Pynchon’s Inherent Vice is an enigmatic piece. It has perplexed critics and audiences alike, who have found it to be an imperfect yet enjoyable addition to the director’s filmography. The movie follows Doc Sportello (Joaquin Phoenix), a stoner and private detective, as he investigates the disappearance of his ex-girlfriend Shasta (Katherine Waterston) in 1970s Los Angeles. Inherent Vice notably marks Anderson’s return to ensemble casts: the film stars Joanna Newsom, Benicio Del Toro, Owen Wilson, Jena Malone, Martin Short, and Reese Witherspoon, all contributing to the confused and marijuana-infused Californian atmosphere. The story expands to an incomprehensible extent, as Phoenix’s character teams up with Lieutenant Bigfoot (Josh Brolin), a stern, old-school cop from the post-war era, whose temper contrasts with Sportello’s nostalgic 60s hippie spirit. Their shared enemy is a mysterious criminal organisation called the “Golden Fang”, which is surrounded by vague conspiracies, greatly contributing to the film’s paranoid post-Manson killings atmosphere. Inherent Vice’s puzzling narrative proves to be a double-edged sword, since it captures incredibly well Pynchon’s idiosyncratic voice and story – Anderson was nominated at the Oscars for Best Adapted Screenplay – while also challenging audiences’ expectations, and therefore possibly spoiling their enjoyment of the movie. The filmmaker’s looser direction, featuring a lot of handheld camera movement, suits the story and setting, as well as Elswit’s grainy cinematography, who returned to shoot Inherent Vice on 35mm. The movie also features many instances of slapstick comedy, usually including Sportello in comical situations, and complemented by Jonny Greenwood’s ever-present distinctive score, punctuated by classic rock pieces such as Can’s “Vitamin C” playing in the background of the opening as the green neon title appears onscreen.

Phantom Thread sees Paul Thomas Anderson exploring new territory, as he leaves the United States for 1950s London, in what is supposed to be Daniel Day-Lewis’ final role. It is inspiring to witness such an accomplished director in a constant quest for the renewal of his craft, and his nomination at the upcoming Academy Awards, whatever the outcome may be, further cements his place as one of the 21st century’s greatest directors.

Phantom Thread is out now in UK cinemas. It is nominated for Best Picture at upcoming 2018 Academy Awards, and in the fields of Lead Actor, Supporting Actress, Original Score, and Costume Design. Paul Thomas Anderson is nominated for Best Director.

Raphael Duhamel reviews David Fincher’s thrilling Netflix series.

“It’s always the mother. They all have a crazy, angry mother.”

Mindhunter is a Freudian’s dream. Set in Virginia in 1977, the new ten-episode Netflix series follows two FBI agents from the Behavioral Science Unit, Holden Ford (Jonathan Groff) and Bill Tench (Holt McCallany), as they travel across the United States helping local law enforcement and, most importantly, interviewing serial killers. It diverges greatly from most crime shows which have populated television and computer screens over the last decade by deliberately showing as little blood and gore as possible, excluding the first episode’s brilliant opening scene – one of David Fincher’s trademarks.

Mindhunter is about conversations. It brings to light the beginnings of criminal profiling, by focusing almost exclusively on the two partners’ dialogues with convicted murderers. Fincher, who also took on the executive producer role, and creator Joe Penhall, brought in Amy filmmaker Asif Kapadia to direct two episodes, on the basis that only documentarians could grasp the intensity and tension of long, talkative scenes. Holden’s young and ambitious persona contrasts with Bill’s tough and bulky figure in interviews, as the former tends to sympathize with killers in order to get more information, whereas the veteran agent carefully keeps his distance.  Bill is experienced and self-conscious enough to be aware of his limits: he notably decides to take a step back after his adopted and autistic son steals a crime-scene picture from his home office. Holden, however, keeps on interviewing criminals and even comes close to being friends with Edmund Kemper, the infamous Co-ed Butcher, accused of murdering ten people. This dynamic is central to the show’s narrative, depicting Holden’s slow descent into madness, during which he alienates himself from his employer, colleagues, and girlfriend.

Mindhunter the image of its protagonist: eerily empathetic, forthrightly fearless, yet incredibly lovable. It sets itself the difficult task of appealing to the audience by lessening the mysterious aura surrounding serial killers, and portraying them only as very peculiar human beings. This article’s opening quote is an example of that, as these convicts’ unconscious motives seem to be easily decipherable. Their childhood is consistently marked by an absent father and strict mother, which drives them towards animal cruelty and, later on, more violent crimes, usually sexual. Mindhunter presents, indeed, a naturalistic and deterministic approach to crime, demonstrating that psychopaths are a product of society and their environment. Most crimes both partners have to deal with occur in rural America, usually in poor “white trash” families. This determinism is particularly relevant in the series’ 1970s context, post-Vietnam War and especially post-Watergate, in a country that seems to have lost its faith and trust in the government. Holden, a representative of the FBI, is paradoxically trying to comprehend the minds of individuals who have supposedly been turned into criminals by the system he incarnates so well. This contradiction is also present in his romantic relationship with Deborah Mittford (Hannah Gross), a post-graduate sociology student, who embodies the typical leftist hippie, and continually mocks him for his “goody two shoes” look. Mindhunter thrives on these paradoxes, aptly portrayed by its protagonist, and succeeds in representing the complexity of both Holden and the interviewed subjects.

The show, nevertheless, lacks strong female characters, although it does try to give them prominent parts. Anna Torv plays Wendy Carr, a resilient and independent psychology professor, who comes to work for the FBI in Quantico, in order to help Holden and Bill establish behavioral patterns. Her attitude and personality indicate early on her masculine features, making the revelation she is a lesbian less of a surprise to the viewer. However, instead of building from that fact a compelling narrative for her character, her sexual orientation ends up justifying every single one of her actions. She regularly accuses her colleagues of misogyny when interacting with the subjects, acting as an unfortunate and stereotypical representative of her gender. Similarly, Deborah Mittford is reduced to her girlfriend status. Her story is not fully developed, as she stands only as a counterpoint to Holden in his private life. She makes the notion of supporting character even more fitting, appearing and disappearing at the same time as her partner.

The series’ best feature, however, remains its original storytelling and direction, which immaculately reflect David Fincher’s vision. The filmmaker, who directed the two first and last episodes of the season, has deliberately distanced himself from his previous creations, notably Se7en and Zodiac, in order to demystify serial killers. For this reason, Mindhunter differs greatly from other recent and successful crime shows, such as Hannibal or True Detective; similarly, the lack of on-screen violence feels new and appropriate, as it intensifies the psychological terror surrounding the interviews. The series’ opening credits, alternating between close-up shots of Holden installing the recording equipment for the interviews and snapshots of a female corpse, also enhance the show’s power of suggestion.

The filmmaker’s desaturated color aesthetic, which fits well with the period setting, is clearly recognizable throughout the season. He worked with Erik Messerschmidt, his cinematographer, to light characters in contrast with the outside world, using practical lights that appear inside the frame. When Holden interviews Edmund Kemper for the first time, by himself, the interrogation room appears blue and cold, accentuating the young agent’s isolation in front of the colossal and intimidating murderer, whereas the sunlight coming through the windows is warm and yellow. Fincher’s detached and robotic camera, following every single character movement, is also present, contributing further to the show’s ominous sense of dread.

Mindhunter is a refreshing series, and an exhilaratingly cerebral newcomer in the growingly banal landscape of crime television. Its grounded realism and stylistic commitments form an enthralling whole, although some characters are not quite as developed as others. David Fincher’s skillful touch undoubtedly adds to this talkative creation the necessary expertise, making it one of 2017’s best shows.

Mindhunter is available to watch on Netflix. Check out the official series trailer below:

Raphael Duhamel reports on the ongoing story.

On October 5th, the New York Times published an investigation about Harvey Weinstein and let the world discover the odious acts of a perverted, powerful man. Since then, the ex-Hollywood mogul has been fired by the board of his own enterprise, The Weinstein Company, and a great number of women (thirty-three for now, though the number keeps growing), some of them famous, have shared their own dreadful experiences with the producer. What started as harassment complaints quickly escalated to sexual assaults. The New Yorker reported that three actresses were raped, including Asia Argento, daughter of Italian director Dario, who was only twenty-one at the time. Their accounts all converge on one point: they stayed in touch with Weinstein, afraid of his considerable influence and extensive reach in Hollywood.

Stories like these have a far too familiar ring to them. The Weinstein case echoes not only Casey Affleck’s recent sexual harassment claims but innumerable older ones which have surfaced in the last few years. Among these are the question of whether Maria Schneider consented to the activities on-set while shooting the infamous butter scene in Last Tango in Paris, and assault allegations against Bill Cosby spanning a period of forty-three years. Although not all scandals are comparable, there is a general feeling of injustice among women in the movie industry, as most perpetrators proceed in their professional life without much difficulty. This applies particularly to Harvey Weinstein, who appears to have been assaulting women since at least 1990 and has gotten away with it – helped by lawyers who negotiated settlements with the victims, dealing sums that went up to millions of dollars. The opening of a NYPD investigation now gives hope to the countless victims.

The producer’s predatory behavior was well-known in his workplace, but all employees were required to sign a non-disclosure agreement in their contract. Indeed, as the company’s “business reputation” was to be protected, dozens of cases were covered up. The New Yorker’s article reveals that Weinstein was almost prosecuted in 2015 for sexually assaulting an Italian model and admitting it in an audio tape. The charges were dropped following the intervention of the producer’s legal team. This accumulation of facts and hard proof is enough to question the complicity of many: it is hardly conceivable that these revelations were news for anyone in Hollywood, especially in his close circle of friends, which includes the likes of Quentin Tarantino and Ben Affleck. The latter expressed his anger and disgust when reading the stories about Weinstein; but his apparent dishonesty was noted on Twitter by Hilarie Burton, who complained about the Argo director groping her during a live MTV show in the past. He briefly answered by apologizing on the social network, but Affleck’s attitude seems representative of the typical Hollywood self-righteousness. Hypocritical behavior also prevails outside of the film industry, as audiences appear to have double standards on the subject of celebrities: how is it that Nate Parker, the director of The Birth of a Nation, got boycotted by critics and audiences because of a rape charge, for which he was acquitted in 1999, whereas Roman Polanski, who now faces a 4th sexual assault allegation, remains one of today’s most acclaimed directors? The same goes for Woody Allen, whose implications in assault cases are still widely overlooked by international audiences. [article continues below]

Worldwide reactions to the Weinstein scandal have been almost unanimous so far, but the question of safety in the movie industry now needs to be tackled effectively, in order to create a supportive environment for women. Most importantly, security in film festivals needs to be scrutinized, since at least four of the sexual assault charges against the producer took place in hotel rooms in Toronto, Cannes, or Sundance. These locations acted as sanctuaries for Weinstein, who took advantage of his status of “independent film god” to molest his victims. Some organizations, such as Women in Film, have put forward some proposals to help actively fight harassment. The two main points involve increasing the number of women in decision-making positions, and refusing to allow compromise and settlement in legal actions against abusers.

According to recent reports, Weinstein is now headed to a rehabilitation center in Europe. The BAFTA has censured him, as well as The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, which has announced a special meeting to discuss the allegations directed at the Oscar-winning producer. AMPAS is known for giving the Best Director Oscar to Roman Polanski in 2003, for The Pianist, in spite of his abusive behavior and exile to Europe; but, as of today, a merciful decision from the Academy appears improbable. Weinstein has issued a statement explaining how devastated he is but, strikingly, instead of asking for forgiveness or expressing any remorse, he seems focused on being granted a second chance. His attitude only goes to show how despicable, pathetic, and most importantly oblivious this man is, as well as reinforcing the absolute necessity that he faces an uncompromising and symbolic trial.

UPDATE (October 19)

 

This is a developing story and will be updated accordingly.